


All Kneelers are Idiots, But Not All Idiots are Kneelers

by jenga



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Post-Season/Series 06, Tormund Giantsbane: good at fighting bad at social cues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7459839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenga/pseuds/jenga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bran returns to Winterfell with news, and Tormund tries to get Brienne's attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Writing crack for this series is much harder than I expected - basically, you have to keep the characters from dwelling too much on the terribly sad shit they've experienced.
> 
> Enter, stage right: Tormund the Blissfully Ignorant.

Tormund wasn’t particularly keen on being put to work repairing some southern lord’s castle. The freefolk did not kneel, they did not supplicate, and they certainly didn’t fucking lend their aid to strengthening castle walls and battlements. It went against everything Tormund knew.

And yet here he was, cutting stones to be laid on the high walls. After all, it wasn’t any southern castle. It was Winterfell, and it was Jon Snow. Jon had earned his help. 

Also, Brienne of Tarth was working not ten yards from him, so Tormund was certain to cut the stones with as much vigor and grunting as possible. It seemed to be working – Brienne’s glares had graduated from angry to perplexed. 

“Almost done with that one, are you?” a Mormont man called down to him from the wall.  Tormund grunted loudly, swinging his hammer. Brienne rolled her eyes.

 _Aha_ , Tormund thought gleefully. _It’s working._  

Jon chose that moment to show up, ruining a perfectly lovely moment between Tormund and Brienne. “You needn’t be working on the repairs,” he said with a worried look on his face.

Tormund clapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, I shouldn’t, yet here I am.” He grinned. “Just don’t ever expect me to fucking kneel to you.”

Jon tilted his head. “What you do on your knees is your business. 

Tormund let out a great laugh. “That it is!” He chanced a grin in Brienne’s direction, but she was resolutely staring at the stone she was carving. No worries, he’d repeat the joke later, and louder, and in her hearing distance. Let it never be said Tormund Giantsbane didn’t know how to steal a woman’s affections.

Jon opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off by the horns blowing atop the wall. “Open the gates!” a man shouted.

The newly repaired wooden gates creaked open slowly, as Jon and Tormund and Brienne all walked toward them, hands on their sword pommels. The yard stood still, breaths held as the newcomers came slowly through the entrance.

Tormund felt Jon freeze next to him, a sharp intake of breath the only sound he made. It was Sansa – who no one had noticed slip into the yard at the horn’s blowing – Sansa who spoke first. Well, “spoke.”

“ _Bran!_ ”

The entire yard became a flurry of noise and activity, as Jon and Sansa both rushed forward to greet the young woman with dark curls and hundred-year-old eyes.  Except they rushed right past her and fell to their feet next to the pile of furs she had dragged along with her. 

“Who’s she?” Tormund asked Brienne, enjoying the opportunity to speak to her. 

Brienne’s mouth pinched. “I haven’t the slightest. But _he_ – “ she pointed at the pile of furs “ – is Bran. Their brother.” 

Tormund looked back at the furs, and his jaw dropped. “The _cripple_?”

“Yes.” 

He stared at the three siblings in wonder. “How in the _everloving fuck_ did he survive all these years?”

“That’d be me. I’m Meera,” said the dark-haired girl, stepping up to greet them. She held her chin high and no less than seven blades.

Tormund had never been closer to spontaneously adopting anyone in his life.

 

* * *

 

Jon and Sansa and their closest advisors closed themselves off with Bran and Meera well into that first night. Bran listened quietly as first Sansa, and then Jon shared their tales from the intervening years. He seemed to already be aware that their mother and brothers had met their end, but he was eager to hear tales from the Wall, and the Battle at Winterfell. 

“And you?” Sansa asked, her voice sad and quiet. “How are you here? How have you survived this long?”

And then Bran spoke for nearly two uninterrupted hours.  Silence reigned for a good three minutes after Bran finished his _fucking absurd_ tale that made _no fucking sense_.

Davos cleared his throat. “You were a _tree_?”

“You killed a white walker?” Tormund asked Meera wonderingly, already imagining he and Brienne and their adopted daughter taking on the Night’s King together. As families do.

Meera shifted closer to Bran, shooting odd glances at Tormund.

“I didn’t _become_ a tree,” Bran corrected. “It’s more that…I can communicate with them. Or draw my power from them.”

“And by drawing your power from the tree,” Tormund said, crossing his arms, “you were able to go back in time, see your father as a young man, and witness the birth of our bastard king over here,” he nodded his head in the direction of Jon Snow, who was looking as pale as his direwolf at the moment. 

“Yes,” Bran said simply. “Jon is not Eddard Stark’s son, he’s Lyanna’s son.”

Silence again. Tormund could feel the tension radiating off Jon and Sansa and the rest, thick enough to slice through.

“He’s still my king!” Lyanna Mormont piped up, her stubborn chin set. “As I said, it’s not his name, but his blood that matters. He’s still a Stark, and still the King in the North.”

“But if Father isn’t your father,” Sansa said, looking at Jon, “then who is?”

Of all the people in the small chamber, Tormund was the only one who neither lived through nor grew up learning the story of Robert’s Rebellion. And so it was only Tormund who did not share in the sudden, communal realization about who, exactly, fathered Jon Snow.

Luckily, no one was standing in the hallway outside the chamber, so no one was there to hear a booming “you’re a _fucking Targaryan_?” when Tormund was finally let in on the secret.

 

* * *

  

Jon and Sansa solved their tiring argument about who got the Lord’s Chambers by sticking Bran in them. Tormund guessed that Bran had spent too many nights sleeping in tree roots to argue against a warm, comfortable bed. He slept for three days and nights.

Meera, in an effort to keep from pacing constantly in front of Bran's door, tried to keep herself busy elsewhere.  Tormund saw her sharpening her knives in the yard on the third day. He determined to find out how many ways she knew to kill a man. He knew seventeen spots on the body that could cause instant or slow deaths – surely she'd want him to teach her!

His mind filled with happy images of gutting Bolton sympathizers with Meera and Brienne, Tormund glanced up to see Jon and Sansa on one of the parapets, deep in conversation.  “What d’you suppose they’re talking about?” Davos asked, coming to stand next to him.

“Probably their brother being a tree,” Tormund guessed. “Or Snow being the heir to the ugliest throne in the known world, perhaps." 

Davos hummed in agreement. “Neither of us are true Northerners – apologies,” he said quickly, as Tormund made an outraged noise. “I mean the Northern portion of the Seven Kingdoms, not the true North.” Tormund grunted, so Davos continued. “I worry that the Northerners will be troubled to learn of Jon’s true parentage – Lady Mormont’s conviction aside, he is half-dragon.”

Tormund rolled his eyes. These fucking kneelers and their fucking sigils and their fucking house words.

“You’ll not hear me disagree,” Davos said, and Tormund realized he had spoken his last thoughts out loud.

“He’s as much a Stark as ever,” Tormund pointed out. “Just from his mother, not his father.”

“It is the father’s blood that counts, unfortunately,” Brienne said next to them. Tormund jumped at the sound of her voice.

Davos nodded gravely. “Not to mention, it was one matter when no one knew who his mother was. But now that we know he is not only half-southern, but half- _dragon_ …the Northerners might not accept him as King.”

“You all know how completely mad you sound, do you?” Tormund asked, looking from Davos to Brienne and back.

Brienne glared at him. “We do not make the rules, ser. But neither can we unmake them.”

 _She spoke to me_ , Tormund grinned to himself, then tried to school his expression as Brienne continued to scowl in his direction.  Determined to contribute something to this frankly baffling conversation, Tormund glanced up at Jon and Sansa on the wall. The idea came to him in one swift moment. Indeed, it was so simple and obvious he couldn’t believe he was the first to come upon it. “Why don’t they marry, then?”

The other two stared at him. “Marry?” Davos asked.

“If it’s the Stark name you need, she’s got it,” Tormund said, pointing to the Stark girl. “And they like each other,” he added, thinking to sweeten the suggestion.

“They’re _siblings_ ,” Brienne said, disdain in her voice.

“’cept they’re not,” Tormund pointed out, rather proudly.

“I don’t know what perversions you wildlings practice beyond the wall - ” Brienne started, but Davos cut her off.

“It’s not…” he hesitated before continuing, looking as though he couldn’t believe the words he was speaking. “It’s not the _worst_ idea.”

“You must be joking,” Brienne said, wide-eyed. On the wall, Jon reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Sansa’s ear. 

“They’re not actually siblings,” Davos pointed out. Tormund gestured at him, pointedly looking at Brienne. _See?_   She ignored him.

“They’re cousins, which is perfectly respectable for a marriage,” Davos continued. “And this would secure each of their positions in the North. They’ll both be expected to make advantageous, politically sound marriages – why not to each other?”

“Sansa is still technically married to the Imp,” Brienne protested.

“A sham marriage, one Jon can nullify easily enough,” Davos countered, warming to the idea. “We could send word to the Northern lords about his parentage and their betrothal at once, keep any opposition down before it even begins.”

“They’ll never agree to it,” Brienne said, glancing at the pair on the wall, who were standing close together and staring into each other’s eyes.

“They’ll agree,” Tormund said. “'sides, Jon likes red hair.”

Brienne looked ready to draw her sword and challenge Tormund to a duel ( _yes, what excellent foreplay,_ he thought merrily) when Davos spoke again. “Jon’s a good man, he’ll be a good and decent husband. Gods know she deserves that.”

She fell silent for a long moment, before sighing and nodding. “All right, let’s speak with them tonight.”

Tormund grinned, his chest puffing out. _She agreed! She liked my idea!_   A few more days, and he’d be throwing her over his shoulder and stealing her away. _Or perhaps the other way around_ , he thought, admiring her broad back as she turned towards the castle.

She’d taken no more than two steps when Lyanna Mormont strode up to them, her eyes bright and excited. “I’ve solved it!” she said confidently. “We’ll marry him to Sansa, that’ll keep the Northerners happy!”

Brienne’s tormented groan could be heard as she stalked away.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, a long silence once again fell on the King and his councilors – this time, after Davos finished explaining their frankly excellent plan to keep Jon from being exiled by his own people. 

“Are you mad?” Jon asked, looking aghast at the four of them. “She’s my sister.”

“She’s _not_.” Tormund sighed, tired of all of these people who didn’t understand how familial relations worked. “See, if you don’t share any parents, you’re not brother and sister.”

Jon covered his eyes with one hand. “I know that,” he said wearily.

 _Then why do I need to keep explaining this?_   Tormund wondered.

“Your Grace, we think it’s worth considering,” Davos said.

Jon looked from Tormund, to Davos, to Brienne, to Lyanna. He pointedly avoided turning to his left to look at Sansa, who stared at the table with a small, thoughtful frown on her face.

“You all think this is a good idea?” Jon asked them weakly.

“Yes,” Meera said. They all turned to stare at her. She shrugged. “I was going to suggest the same thing.”

“So was I,” Bran said reluctantly. Jon let out a strangled noise.

“So was I,” Sansa said.  At that, Jon whipped around and stared at her.

“You _were_?”

Sansa shrugged. “It keeps the Northerners happy. And I won’t have to marry Littlefinger.”

“ _What?_ ” Jon, Brienne, and Lyanna Mormont all said as one.

She sighed. “He keeps asking.”

“How dare he?” Jon said, a murderous look on his face. “After all he did to you, I should have his head.”

Sansa reached over and grasped his hand, holding his gaze steadily. “He’s not the first to attempt to marry my birthright, and he won’t be the last.”

Jon and Sansa fell silent, holding hands and gazes for a long moment. Tormund looked around, wondering at his companions and their suddenly awkward stances.  He looked back. Jon and Sansa were _still_ quietly holding hands.

“So…is that a yes?” Tormund finally asked. “What?” he asked, as everyone around him groaned.

 

* * *

  

A fortnight later, Tormund was once again cutting stones in the yard, as loudly and strappingly as possible. Brienne was nowhere to be seen, but Meera was sitting with Bran a short distance away, and Tormund wanted her to see his many skills and trades that he could teach her.

Jon and Sansa had been married two nights earlier. The King and Queen of the North had not been seen about since, taking their meals in the Lord’s Chambers (returned quickly by Bran, who seemed to want to avoid thinking about what they were currently being used for). Ravens would go out the next week, announcing the news of Jon’s lineage and his marriage to Lady Sansa of House Stark.  

For now, the yard was relatively quiet. Davos and Lyanna Mormont had just entered from one side, the latter regaling the old knight with tales of her mother and aunts. Brienne appeared after them, stalking along the inner wall of the castle, her appraising eye looking for weak spots. Gods, but he adored her.

He raised his hammer, ready to impress her with his strength and grunting, when the horns blared.

“Open the gates!” someone shouted.

An old woman walked through, stooped with age. She stood in the middle of the yard, glaring around at its occupants. Brienne reached slowly for her sword.  And then the old woman reached up and _took her skin off_.

Bran shouted. Well, they all shouted, but Bran shouted a specific name.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, the small chamber (which was getting rather crowded, actually) was once again awkwardly silent.

“You’re _married?_ ” Arya Stark said, looking back and forth between Jon and Sansa.

“You took your face off!” Jon protested, as if that was at all an answer to her question.

“I still don’t think we’ve appropriately covered the fact that Bran was a tree for a while,” Tormund pointed out helpfully.

Brienne looked pained. Meera stifled a smile.

“Why don’t we leave them to speak amongst themselves?” Davos suggested, gesturing to the four siblings. Well, they weren’t all siblings. Cousins. Three siblings and one cousin-slash-husband. 

“We know,” Jon said, glaring at Tormund, who realized once again he’d been speaking out loud. Sansa buried her face in her hands. Brienne and Meera ushered him out, joining Davos and Lyanna in the hall.

Tormund grinned at them all. “Isn’t it nice to see families reuniting?”

After a moment, hesitant smiles appeared among the gathered group. “Aye, it is,” Davos agreed.

Tormund, Davos, Brienne, Meera, and Lyanna stood there for a moment, smiling. Jon and Sansa had their family back and their future secured, the North was growing stronger day by day, and Winterfell was slowly being returned to its old glory. In a season short on things to celebrate, they took the happy moments when they came.

Then, from inside the chamber, they heard Jon’s shout: “Cersei Lannister, _the First of Her Name?_ ”

Tormund sighed. Fucking kneelers. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Brienne had her way, Sansa and Arya would remain in Winterfell until spring came. Winterfell, where they had a full household guard and thirty-foot walls and Ghost.
> 
> Brienne does not get her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the incredibly kind reviews and comments on the first chapter, I was so gratified by the response. I knew I wanted to return to the well once inspiration hit again. And so it has.

The night Arya Stark returned to Winterfell, Brienne seized the first opportunity she had to kneel before the younger Stark girl and offer up her sword.

“Lady Arya,” she began, bowing her head. “I will shield your back and keep your – “

“What,” Arya said, looking around the room at the other occupants. “What is she doing?”

“Gods, Arya,” Sansa sighed. “Don’t be so rude.”

Brienne cleared her throat and continued. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel. I will give my life for yours if need be.”

“Well, that’s not necessary,” Arya interrupted again. “I’m fairly certain I’m immortal.”

“You’re not,” Bran piped up from near the window.

“I might be!”

Brienne tried again. “ _I will give my life for yours_ – ”

“Besides,” Tormund piped up cheerfully. “Jon’s probably immortal too and he’s got himself plenty of sworn swords.”

“I’m not immortal,” Jon said wearily, as if this was an argument they’d had many times.

“You might be!”

Sansa glared at Tormund. “Let’s not go testing that theory, if we can.”

“Maybe it runs in the family?” Arya suggested. “That’s how Jon and I both came back from the dead.”

“You didn’t come back from the dead, you just didn’t die,” Bran pointed out. Arya rolled her eyes.

“And judging by the state of your family, I don’t think immortality runs in your blood,” Tormund said. The entire room turned as one to glare at him. “What?”

After an awkward moment, Arya flapped her hand at Brienne. “Go on, sorry, finish the vows bit.”

Brienne took a deep breath and spoke rapidly. “Lady Arya, I offer you my sword. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, I will give my life for yours if need be, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Arya looked lost for a moment. “Thank you?”

Sansa groaned and dropped her head into her hands. Brienne looked up at the younger Stark girl, who shrugged and reached out to awkwardly pat her on the shoulder.

“Well,” Jon said with a small grin. “That went about as well as one might’ve expected.”

 

* * *

 

For the first time, perhaps in her life, Brienne felt was in the right place at the right time. Catelyn Stark had charged her with bringing her daughters home, and here they were. Sheltered within the walls of their childhood homestead, reunited with the family that remained to them, and protected by an army that grew larger each day – Sansa and Arya were safer than they had been since Robert Baratheon rode north on the kingsroad. 

Sansa took to her twin roles as Lady of Winterfell and newly crowned Queen in the North with a steadfast determination that her mother would have been proud of. She met with the stewards, wrote to the Citadel for a new maester, appointed a new captain of the guard, and oversaw the slow progress on Winterfell’s restorations with a deliberate and careful eye, seeing to it that every last trace of the Bolton’s was scrubbed off, scraped away, or burned to ash.

Brienne was perfectly fine with all of that. It was Sansa’s insistence on riding out to meet with the northern lords and see to their households that drew her protest.

“Why would you go visit Lord Glover?” Brienne asked, dismayed. “There are still Bolton and Lannister sympathizers to be dealt with, it is not safe for you to travel.”

“I am Queen and the Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa said, resolute. “They must see that the Starks have truly taken back the North.”

“But it’s _winter_ ,” Brienne protested feebly.

Sansa nodded. “We leave after breakfast tomorrow.”

Brienne grumbled, sitting down next to Meera and Bran and ladling stew into a trench of bread. Sansa sat down beside Jon, leaning in to speak quietly to him.

“You’re going _where?_ ” Jon asked loudly. Everyone looked up. “Why on earth would you do that?

Brienne nodded emphatically, gesturing with her spoon. “That’s what I said.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you two. You’d think I wanted to go beyond the wall.”

“It’s not so bad, I’ll take you sometime,” Bran said. Meera kicked him under the table. “Oh no, ouch, you’ve hurt my leg,” he said drily.

Sansa turned to Jon. “I’ll be gone for five days, and Brienne will be with me.” Podrick cleared his throat. “And Podrick. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Right, because leaving Winterfell and saying ‘I’ll be right back, don’t worry,’ has worked out _great_ for this family,” Jon muttered.

Sansa and Bran both glared at him. Jon flushed, chastened.

“You’ll take either Ser Davos or Tormund, as well,” he told Sansa, who considered for a moment. She nodded.

“Deal.”

Brienne took a moment to wonder whether she’d rather be stuck travelling with Tormund, who was increasingly unsettling in his attentions towards her, or Davos, who she had still not forgiven for his service to Stannis. She was still considering this when Jon looked around and noted the wildling’s absence.

“Come to think of it, where is Tormund?”

“He took Arya to the battlefield so she could collect more faces from the corpses,” Bran said, dipping a chunk of bread in his broth.

Silence fell at their table.

Then, a whispered, horrified: “She’s doing _what?_ ”

 

* * *

 

“There were hardly any usable ones,” Arya complained that evening upon her return. “I suppose it’s been weeks since the battle, but I was hoping that the cold might have preserved their flesh a little longer. I did manage to collect a few, at least. Would you like to see them?” She raised a canvas bag that had unsettling patches of rusty color. 

The battle-hardened men and women in the small chamber looked back at the young Stark girl with matched expressions of distress.

“Er, no, that’s all right, my lady” Davos said, attempting to smile.

“You should see how she gets the faces,” Tormund said, clapping Arya on the back firmly. She buckled slightly. “She cut the first one off so fast, I barely saw it. I had to ask her to slow down for the next couple so I could see it done proper.”

Brienne drew herself up to her full height. “You cannot just _take_ Lady Arya – ”

“M’not a lady,” Arya protested.

“You cannot take her out of Winterfell without – without _alerting_ someone,” Brienne told Tormund, furious.

“Why not?” he asked. “Girl’s wandered around half the world on her own and come through intact.”

“She got _stabbed!_ ” Sansa exclaimed. Beside her, Jon nodded furiously.

“By a Faceless Assassin!” Arya retorted. “You try not getting stabbed when one of them is out for you.”

“Plus, Jon got stabbed by his own brothers,” Tormund pointed out. “Can’t tell me it’s safer within castle walls than without.”

“That – is an entirely different sort of matter,” Jon said, helplessly.

Arya glared at Jon. “You can’t lock me up here.”

“I’m your brother!” Jon said. “I know I’m not _actually_ your brother,” he said quickly as Tormund opened his mouth, “but I’m still supposed to protect you.”

“I can protect myself better than half a dozen guards,” Arya responded evenly. “And half the time you won’t even know it’s me, so try and stop me from leaving.” With that, she grabbed her bag of faces and stomped out.

During the awkward silence that followed, Meera and Bran came into the room, the girl pushing his wheeled chair before her.

“Sorry I’m late, I doing some tree-seeing,” Bran announced. “Uncle Benjen is still looking good for a partial ice zombie.”

Tormund turned to Jon and Sansa. “You two have the fucking weirdest family.”

Privately, Brienne found herself agreeing.

 

* * *

 

Tormund generously volunteered to accompany Sansa to Deepwood Motte.

Well.

“I want to come! I want to come!” Tormund shouted, racing into the yard.

Sansa and Brienne turned, startled, as the red-haired wildling skidded to a stop in front of the pair.

“Snow…Jon said you needed an extra sword,” he said, out of breath. “Me or Davos. I’ll join you. Me.” He thought for a moment. “Please?”

Sansa looked at Brienne, bemused. “That’s…very kind of you, ser. We leave tomorrow morn, and expect to be gone a sennight.” With a small smile at the wildling, and a decidedly wickeder one at Brienne, Sansa walked back towards the castle.

Brienne watched Sansa’s retreating back for a moment before turning her attention back to Tormund. The wildling grinned broadly at her.

“This’ll be fun, won’t it?” he said dreamily. “Maybe we’ll encounter some Ironborn while we’re out! Ooh, or some _rapers_ …”

“Why…” Brienne started, then thought twice. Shaking her head, she sighed. “Be ready after breakfast tomorrow.”

Tormund practically skipped back to the castle.

 

* * *

 

Of course they encountered a band of rogue Thenn on their way back from Lord Glover’s seat. Of course they were outnumbered - six men and two women, murder and hunger in their eyes, blocking their path.

And of course Tormund, the absolute maniac, was  _delighted_.

“Which ones do you want?” he asked as they drew their swords. “Can I have the three on the left? You take the three on the right, and winner gets the two in the middle.”

“Fine, yes, take them,” Brienne said. “Pod, get Sansa back!”

“Sorry, Pod, you can have some fun the next time!” Tormund called as he kicked his heels into his horse’s sides. With a gleeful giggle, he raced forward to meet the Thenn, his sword slashing in the air.

Cursing, Brienne rode swiftly after him into the melee.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Tormund had taken a wound to his palm, and Brienne had felt a blade glance off her shin, but they both stood tall among eight fallen foes when Sansa and Pod rejoined them.

“Well done, m’lady,” Pod said, bending to check her wound. Tormund coughed. “You too, ser.”

“Yes,” Brienne said, shooting a reluctant smile at Tormund. “You fought well and brave- what are you _doing?_ ”

Tormund paused, his dagger point piercing the skin behind the ear of one of the deceased Thenn. “I thought I’d try it out…maybe bring the little Stark back a few faces?”

“No,” Brienne said, aghast. “No slicing off faces. Get back on your horse.”

“Well…” Sansa said, then stopped.

“My lady?”

Sansa gestured awkwardly. “Aren’t you a little bit curious about how it’s done?”

“No,” Brienne of Tarth lied, with the stubbornness born of a lifetime standing tall and proud and resolute.

“Well, I am,” Sansa said.

“Me, too,” Pod volunteered. Brienne glared at him. He smiled blandly back.

“Go on, ser, let’s see how it’s done,” Sansa prompted.

Tormund clapped his hands eagerly, and got to work.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, my gods, what have you done to this face?” Arya asked when Tormund presented her with his prize.

“I’m a _beginner_ ,” he said sullenly.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Brienne found herself sitting with Lyanna Mormont and Bran in the yard, watching Arya and Meera fence, ostensibly under Jon’s tutelage.

“I swear to the Seven, Jon, if you don’t stop hovering so closely I will drive this sword right through your thigh,” Arya said, glaring.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jon said, lifting his hands and backing away. Slightly.

“Go stand by the stables,” Arya insisted. “She can’t hurt me, I’m immortal.”

“You’re _not_ ,” Bran called out. “I swear, you’re really not!”

“ _Thank_ you,” Jon said, gesturing. “You can’t blame me for wanting to protect you.”

“You’re not immortal either, Jon,” Bran added, “so I wouldn’t recommend saying those things to Arya while she has steel in her hands.”

Jon looked from Bran back to Arya, and considered. “Right, I’ll go stand by the stables.”

Brienne smiled, her eyes drifting past Jon to where Tormund and Davos were standing on the opposite side of the yard. Try as she might, she couldn’t deny she was beginning to feel a certain…respect for the wildling. Perhaps even affection? He was a fool, to be sure. And a wildling with no honor or code to speak of. But he was a fine fighter, and his loyalty to Jon and his family was admirable.

Plus, he was so very _tall_.

As if reading her thoughts, Tormund looked up and caught Brienne’s eye. He puffed out his chest and waved broadly at her. Flushing, she looked quickly away.

“So who do you like?” Lyanna asked.

“No one! Why would you think I like anyone?”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes at Brienne. “I meant in the match. Arya or Meera. Who do you think will be the victor?”

“…Oh.” Brienne opened her mouth, but could think of nothing to say. “Right.”

Arya, quicker and trickier than Meera, managed to take on the offensive position. She had raised her sword to deliver the killing blow when three horns blasted in quick succession.

Meera took advantage of Arya’s distraction to quickly disarm her. Within seconds, Arya’s sword was on the ground and Meera’s blade was at her neck.

“Yield!” Arya called, and Meera backed away, grinning.

The gates creaked open, drawing the attention of the occupants of the yard. Brienne walked to stand slightly in front of Arya, her hand on her sword.

“You really don’t need to do that,” Arya sighed.

Brienne didn’t look away from the opening gates. “My lady, I swore to protect you from all dangers. We don’t know what manner of person might be coming through those gates right now – he could be an absolute monster.”

“Now, Lady Brienne, is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

Brienne’s stomach sank. Or her heart jumped to her throat. Probably both.  

Jaime Lannister nodded at the gathered crowd. “I’ve come to meet with your new king and queen. Where might I find them?”

Arya pointed back towards Jon. “He’s by the stables. He was being annoying.”

The Lord of Casterly Rock grinned at her. “Glad to hear some things never change.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've just opened shop on tumblr - come find me @jengatower


End file.
